


Taking Time

by wesleyfanfiction_archivist



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-07-09
Updated: 2005-07-09
Packaged: 2018-05-31 10:29:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6466762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wesleyfanfiction_archivist/pseuds/wesleyfanfiction_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A missing scene at the end of "I've got you under my skin".</p>
            </blockquote>





	Taking Time

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Versaphile, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [WesleyFanfiction.net](http://fanlore.org/wiki/WesleyFanFiction.Net). Deciding that it needed to have a more long-term home, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact the e-mail address on [WesleyFanfiction.net collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/wesleyfanfiction/profile).

He glowers at the coffee machine and poked at the newly ground coffee half-heartedly with the plastic scoop. Six scoops for eight cups of coffee, that’s the formula apparently. Trusts him in this as he does in all research. More than her anyway. Hers always tastes as if it was prepared at least a week before it was required, as if it needed that long for the true flavours to develop.

Measures out the grounds carefully, counting out loud like a four year old, and catches sight of an errant bean under the hot plate.

‘Cagey little brutes, aren’t they? I’ll wash them if you like.’,

He smiles inwardly at the thought, and abruptly loses his place in the count. Idiot.

‘I got doughnuts.’ 

She flounces in, wearing something that looks much too expensive for what he is apparently paying her, and he makes a mental note to check the accounts. Again.

‘God, you’re not attempting coffee.’ She rolls her eyes and sets the box of pastries down beside the machine. ‘Where’s Wes, anyway? He’s supposed to do the coffee.’ Flips open the lid and lifts a pink frosted doughnut from the selection. ‘If you’re so determined to keep him on the payroll, the least he could do is turn up for work on time.’ 

‘Hello pot. Have you met kettle?’ This from the woman who gives the concept of flexi-time an almost yogic meaning.

She makes a face at him, and brushes a perfectly manicured nail across the edge of her sugar coated lips. ‘Oh, funny man. I have errands to run, rehearsals to attend. Unlike you losers, I actually have a *life*.’

‘He’s already here.’ 

That stops her in mid-flow, her mouth making a little lollipop-shaped ‘o’ of surprise. Then recovers herself supremely. ‘Might have guessed. Total kiss-ass. The man could grovel for his country.’

‘He didn’t go home last night, actually.’

This time she turns to face him, and he reads at least ten different emotions until at last she settles for slightly incredulous. She’s been practising, clearly. ‘He stayed over?’

It’s his turn for the eye roll. ‘The stab wound he got from the cross got infected. He was a bit groggy, and I didn’t want him passing out at his own place.’

Immediately a change comes over her, the Cordelia bubble burst now, and she is all sisterly concern. ‘I’d better change the dressings, then.’

‘I took care of that last night.’

She raises unnaturally perfect eyebrows at him in surprise. ‘Since when are you big with the Florence Nightingale routine? Why didn’t you call me?’

He doesn’t quite meet her eye. ‘You were tired. It was a hard night. You needed to rest.’ Wonders if she can detect the insincerity in what he hopes is his most convincing voice. 

 

*~*~*~*

 

Wesley stands in the dim light of the tiny kitchen, swaying a little.

‘I should go…’ he falters slightly, reaching out a hand to catch the edge of the table, the shadowed light from the corner of the room lending his skin a greyish hue.

‘Sit, Wesley,’ he orders softly, gently grasping the thin shoulder, feeling unhealthy heat beneath his fingertips, even through the rumpled fabric of his shirt.

The younger man obeys, has not strength left in him to argue. Rests his forehead onto the flat of open palms, and sighs wearily. And suddenly Angel sees the man that Wesley will become, a glimpse of shadows and lines on his face, etched there by time and pain and care. The wound at his neck strangely prescient of things to come. Feels an absurd desire to comfort and protect him.

‘Better change that dressing, Wes. Feels like you’re running a fever.’

Gathering the required supplies from the kitchen cabinet, he attends to the task with complete and silent dedication. Peeling back the gauze of the dressing, it sucks at the surrounding skin, sticky with sluggish still-flowing blood. The heady aroma is the spice of lilies in darkness, peppery sweet; tangling demon and soul in the primal urges to feed and nurture.

Wesley makes a soft hissing sound in unthinking protest as the old bandage is ripped away from the damaged flesh. His dark blue eyes are leaded with pain; or is it something else entirely that floats behind the dilated pupils, drugged and dark? 

No. It’s his own need for the rich arterial blood which has clouded his judgement, roused the demon within him. Or so he tells himself.

He wants him to know, this painfully self-deprecating Englishman, wants him to know that he is needed; worthy of concern. And so he tends the wound, careful fingers working deftly at his neck, the pulse shuddering through his fingertips, travelling into his own veins and echoing in his empty chest. He places a new dressing on the wound and fixes it in place, then rests a cool palm against the forehead, heat soaking through his hand, warming him to his very core.

Wesley leans into the touch, and remains still there, while Angel rummages with his other hand in the first aid kit for some painkillers. As pleasant as this heat is, it is surely not a good thing for the human to be quite so hot. He finds Tylenol, pops two and places them in front of Wesley, who does not react. Regretfully, he removes his hand from the heated skin and fetches water in a glass. Still no reaction.

‘Take them,’ he orders, in a tone that brooks no disagreement. Watches the shiver that runs involuntarily through the other man’s spine. Of fear or pleasure, he cannot be quite sure. A little of both, perhaps, in equal measure. Wesley sits forward, his shoulders hunched, swallowing the medication obediently. His faithful servant.

He does not think he has ever seen Wesley so silent. There are usually words, by turns slightly pompous, the hands-clasped-behind-his-back watcher lecturing style that he hasn’t quite managed to shed; and then suddenly, desperately, pleadingly apologetic. 

‘Please don’t fire me… I am very rarely taken hostage.’

But there are no words now. Just the quiet rasp of pain-controlling breaths, hitching in his damaged throat.

‘You stay here tonight.’ 

He makes it a command, offers him no choice in the matter, and notices the increased heart rate, the pupils widening slightly, his body betraying a fight or flight response to the directive. In the end Wesley does neither; allows himself to be led to the bedroom, pushed gently onto the bed. Removes his own shoes and slips off his glasses.

Again he is struck by the softness of those uncovered eyes, making him seem at once years younger, yet somehow older. And farther away.

He eases him back onto the pillows, and Wesley relaxes at last, rolling onto his side. His shirt is pulled up, exposing bare skin at the base of his spine, a network of thin white lines tracing across his lower back, disappearing below his waistband.

‘A father doesn’t have to be possessed to terrorize his children. He just has to…’

This is a private Wesley, belonging to a past he does not willingly share. The realization sobers him, and he resists the urge to run a cool finger along the scar lines, to take the heat of them into himself. Contents himself instead with refastening his hand to the fevered brow. 

Wesley shivers, once, then sleeps.

 

*~*~*~*

 

‘Angel. Why didn’t you wake me?’

He is a better colour this morning, a little pale still, but no longer flushed with temperature. The strange shadowed lines that pain drew upon his face now vanished; he is no longer the ghost of his past and future.

Cordelia sips her coffee and grimaces theatrically. ‘Oh, totally second that. Why didn’t you wake him? He’s the only one that can work the stupid machine.’

‘Nice to know I’m useful for something,’ he returns sarcastically, throwing down the gauntlet for one of their daily sniping matches. 

He listens in half amusement to their verbal sparring, wondering at which point he will be called upon to act as referee. Wondering which of them crack first, beg his support on their behalf. 

And it’s her today. Wesley allows a small smile of triumph, his eyes sparkling with almost defiance as Angel rebukes him gently.

Completely recovered, then.

There would be no good reason now for placing his hand on Wesley’s brow, for drinking in the gentle warmth there. No good reason at all. He curves cold palms around the mug of coffee, and smiles softly to himself. 

 

 

Sonnet 15

 

When I consider every thing that grows  
Holds in perfection but a little moment,  
That this huge stage presenteth nought but shows  
Whereon the stars in secret influence comment;  
When I perceive that men as plants increase,  
Cheered and checked even by the self-same sky,  
Vaunt in their youthful sap, at height decrease,  
And wear their brave state out of memory;  
Then the conceit of this inconstant stay  
Sets you most rich in youth before my sight,  
Where wasteful Time debateth with decay  
To change your day of youth to sullied night,  
And all in war with Time for love of you,  
As he takes from you, I engraft you new.


End file.
